


Big Brother is Watching you

by LooselybasedonUk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooselybasedonUk/pseuds/LooselybasedonUk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the British Government  enjoys a bag of Malteasers and catches up on his favourite TV show - 221b Baker Street</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you had ever asked Mycroft Holmes about his television viewing habits he would have told you that he did n’t own a television, that his mind was kept fully occupied with the real world and he did n’t clutter up his mind with fictional concerns.  Actually Mycroft would n’t have said anything. He’d have looked at you down his sharp nose, raised an eyebrow and you would have bloody well made yourself busy with something else as far away from him as possible and be forever haunted by nightmares of your stupidity. That was just the affect the man had on people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Brother is Watching you

If you had ever asked Mycroft Holmes about his television viewing habits he would have told you that he didn’t own a television, that his mind was kept fully occupied with the real world and he didn’t clutter up his mind with fictional concerns. Actually Mycroft wouldn’t have said anything. He’d have looked at you down his sharp nose, raised an eyebrow and you would have bloody well made yourself busy with something else as far away from him as possible and be forever haunted by nightmares of your stupidity. That was just the affect the man had on people. 

However if this had happened, Mycroft would have been lying, sort of. It is true that Mycroft didn’t have a television at home, but in the office he had a nice wide flat screen on which he liked to watch the news and chuckle to himself at the reporting. And at home he had an equally large but discreet screen in the study which showed the live stream from several equally discreetly positioned cameras around London. In the evening after a hard day Mycroft liked nothing better that to curl up on the comfortable leather chair, nurse a very fine single malt whisky, allow himself a fun size packet of Malteasers and tune into the livestream from the hidden cameras in Baker Street. 

If having failed to learn your previous lesson you had expressed certain uncomfortableness about this blatant invasion of personal privacy, Mycroft would have explained in perfectly reasonable tones that the surveillance was a sensible appropriate response by a concerned older brother to the lifestyle his rather trying younger brother was leading. Actually again this wouldn’t have happened- a number of silent , somberly dressed young men would have arrived before you’d opened your mouth and escorted you to a very bland room in which you would be able to enjoy some time alone to reflect on your behaviour.

And this would technically speaking, also have been a lie from Mycroft. Certainly the cameras had been planted with a view to keeping an eye on Sherlock but under no circumstances would Mycroft publicly admit the reason he found himself so habitually tuning into the Baker Street cameras. In fact Mycroft barely even admitted the reason to the one person he never lied to. Himself. Quite simply Mycroft relaxed into his seat and watched the domestic life in Baker Street, rather wistfully. His following of the daily drama of brother and his flat mate lives provided him with a sense of intimacy which the nature of his relationship with his brother denied him. Mycroft often found himself imagining he was the third occupant of the flat, able to chide his brother gently to eat more often as the doctor did or drinking a mug of tea companionably with them as they relived some dashing adventure. He even imagined fondly that he too may have occasionally grab a startled Mrs. Hudson to dance her round the living in celebration at some break in the case or debated the finer points of deduction reasoning over Chinese take away with Lestrade. It felt to Mycroft as he watched that he too was part of the weird surrogate family his brother had collected around him.

He was absolutely certain that Sherlock and the good doctor were unaware of his scrutiny which was why it came as something of a surprise the day Mycroft watched Sherlock shot Dr John Watson dead. 

Mycroft had just finished correcting some documents from the treasury in thick red pen and was leaning back in his chair to mutter a fervent wish that one day a chancellor who could add up might be elected, when the shots rang out. Now gun fire was not an uncommon sound in the living room at Baker Street, so Mycroft was not instantly alarmed. However when he looked over at the screen to catch Watson , face pale , clutch at his chest as vivid red blood flood his shirt, falling slowly backward behind the arm of the sofa , he had to admitted a certain frizz on of surprise. He watched the gunman, unmistakable his brother, turn and fire again, this time at the figure exiting the kitchen. The bullet caught Lestrade high on the left of his torso, knocking the Inspector off balance and sending him sliding down the wall and out of the camera frame. Mycroft watched his brother take two strides across room and delivered what Mycroft could only assume was a kill shot to the Inspector’s head. Sherlock than calmly reload his weapon and walked across the center of the room. In horror Mycroft watched his brother bend down at the fallen doctor side and say some too quiet for the camera to pick up. Mycroft could only see the doctor’s legs and feet, and as he watched they began to scrabble frantically against the floor boards. His brother had apparently decided against a nice clean finishing headshot for his friend choosing to finish the job with a more hands on strangulation. Mycroft jammed his hand repeatedly against the panic button which would bring his driver and personal security guards running, rose from the seat and headed for the door. His last desperate glance at the camera showed him Sherlock dropping causally on the sofa with the gun still curled loosely in his left hand.

It took Mycroft twenty minutes to get across central London, only teleportation would have made the journey quicker. Mycroft’s mind raced. Finally Sherlock had committed an act so beyond the pale that even Mycroft with all his connections was not going to be able to hush this up. In Mycroft’s mind Sherlock finally acting on his sociopathic tendencies was less remarkable than the fact that it was John Watson who had borne the brunt of them. Mycroft had always assumed that if Sherlock did snap, he would have been the mostly likely victim.

Mycroft was out of the car before it had full stopped, through the door and heading for the stairs. He pushed pass his security chief without listening to whatever the man had started to tell him. The only thought in Mycroft’s mind was that he must get to his brother before the police did. Maybe they could work out some sort of insanity defense, god know plenty of evidence could be found to support it. He burst through the door, red faced and panting heavily. Three figures stared at him. Three people all alive and all clearly desperately trying to keep straight faces.   
‘Ah Mycroft!’ Said his brother in usually detached tone particularly exaggerated ‘how lovely of you to join us ‘ Mycroft clutched at the door post and fought to regain both his dignity and breath.  
‘I presume you rushed over to congratulation us on solving the Morden Massacre case. I’ve just finished showing Lestrade here how it happened’  
Sherlock waved airily in the Detective Inspector’s direction. Lestrade ducked his head unable to meet Mycroft’s indignant gaze. As Mycroft watched, the Inspector covered his face with his hands and started to shake as he attempted to stifle his laughter. John was unable to maintain his innocent expression in the face of Lestrade’s break down, started giggling. And this turn caused Sherlock sang froid to burst open in a howl of laughter.   
Dear God thought Mycroft as he stood in the doorway watching three adult men laugh till tears rolled down their faces, look at them each as juvenile as the other. With his best disdainful look and promising himself that there would be a particularly biting dressing down delivered to each of these imbeciles at a later date, Mycroft drew himself up and turned toward the door . A hand on his arm stopped him.  
‘Mycroft’ John said. His eyes were wet with the laughter than he was valiantly trying to stop. ‘Don’t go. We’ve just ordered a Chinese takeaway, there is also too much, stay and eat with us’ Mycroft looked at his brother and the Inspector both still bend double with laughter. Lestrade was wheezing slightly with his inability to catch his breath. Sherlock did not look up at his brother but he waved one hand carelessly in the direction of the spare seat on the sofa. Mycroft looked back at the doctor; John smiled and nodded at him encouragingly. And Mycroft much to his surprise found a small smile on his face too.

And then he sat down in his brother’s flat for a wholly unexpected night of Chinese food and family.


End file.
